


Camera Obscura

by evilmouse



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst and Porn, Another Mara Jade Alias, Breach of Contract, Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Frangi's Sandbox, Impact Play, Light Dom/sub, Missing Scene, Not So Femdom, Pining, Remix, Smut, Stop Means Go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-11 17:05:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18428390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmouse/pseuds/evilmouse
Summary: He is the “beneficiary,” that sterile, non-judgmental title as grating as it is indisputable.And Chiara…Chiara is the “proctor,” the word itself implying distance.  She assesses him, monitors him, delivers the terms of the contract with ruthless precision and unimpeachable effectiveness.And Luke wants more.A Phantasmagoria Missing Scene.





	Camera Obscura

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Phantasmagoria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923303) by [frangipani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani). 



> I always have a lot to thank my beta [frangipani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/frangipani/pseuds/frangipani) for, but this time she wrote the AU that launched the madness. If you haven't read [Phantasmagoria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13923303) you may want to check that out and come back. It's the sub!Luke you never knew you needed.
> 
> This "missing scene" is set as Chapter 4.5 in her fic, basically prompted by my warped psyche wanting to explore this "what if" scenario that I couldn't get out of my head.

Luke is sitting on the floor, his customary space during dinner. Chiara’s right hand rests gently in his hair, fingers periodically stroking his scalp as she looks at the datapad in her left. Usually, his mind is blank, content to lean against her leg, content to sit quietly.

For twenty-four hours, things are simple, absolute.

He pays her for this. And for the last ten months, she had delivered. Excelled.

He isn’t using the Force—he resists it anytime the temptation pulls at him. There’s a tension in her fingertips that their wanderings can’t mask. They’ve done this too many times for him to not notice. But he can tell she isn’t really reading. 

Luke wonders if he should ask her what’s bothering her. It feels bold—wrong.

Reckless.

Of late, she’s indulged his questions as much as refused to answer them, if not more. Perhaps thirty percent of the time, she sends him to the wall.

But sometimes she answers, and every time he’s successfully pushed her, found out a tidbit about her background, even something as minor as a favorite food or her interest in spaceship parts, it feels like a monumentally daring achievement. 

More and more often, she answers.

 _I’m not frustrated_ , Luke tells himself. And he isn’t, that’s not the right word. He’s just not _satisfied_. It’s different. 

“You all right?”

She’s asking, voice low, obviously attuned to his awareness of her. It’s one of the benefits of her Force sensitivity, and Luke wonders for the fiftieth time if he should mention it. 

“I was just wondering that myself.”

Her hand withdraws from his hair. Luke keeps his eyes fixed ahead, knowing that’s her preference, and leans a little closer into her leg. She’s wearing a knee-high blue skirt, and no stockings. Her skin feels delicious against his arm.

“Why were you wondering that, Luke?”

Her voice is steady, but Luke feels the tension more keenly now. He resists the urge to shrug, wanting to let her know she can confide in him. How to draw her out? Nothing smug, nothing knowing…

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Something’s different.”

She exhales slowly, sets down the datapad. Luke can almost hear the internal debate. Professionalism wins out, of course it would. Chiara’s focus was perhaps occasionally divided, but never failed to resolve into something pointed and rigid when she put her mind to it. He wonders if she will send him to the wall, just to get rid of him and end the conversation. But her punishments aren’t usually arbitrary, so he stays silent, not wanting to offer her an opening.

“Would you like to terminate the session, Luke?”

The question is so unexpected, and so counter to what he wants, that Luke pulls away from her leg and looks at her with wide eyes. What would have prompted that? Why would she suggest such a thing? And then something clicks in his brain.

“Would _you_ like to terminate the session?”

Something is very wrong. Chiara looks at him, green eyes clear, and he can feel that focus being honed, sharpened. A small smile flickers across her face.

“I don’t like questions as answers to questions, Luke.”

And just like that, he knows what she needs. He can help—it’s a small thing, but he likes knowing he can. She’s human, after all, and maybe simply having a bad day. She needs an outlet. Luke puts on what he hopes is an appropriately disobedient smirk.

“ _You_ do it all the time,” he retorts.

He expects her to punish him for that and she doesn’t disappoint. Instead of the wall, she tells him to go to the bedroom. He knows the routine now, and while he sometimes purposely misbehaves to shut off his own brain, this is the first time he’s done it to shut off hers.

She selects the flogger, synth leather biting repeatedly into his ass and thighs. She denies him her touch, whipping mercilessly, without any tenderness, no gentle strokes between strikes, no light caresses. Just pain, white and pure.

It wouldn’t occur to him to say anything other than “yes” to her onslaught, but she doesn’t ask.

Another first.

When she stops, Luke hears her breathing, harsh and uneven.

“On the bed.”

He crawls there, pillowing his head on his arms and sinking into the cool sheets. The sting of her attacks reverberates throughout his body. He’s waiting, expecting her to offer her lap, tell him he’s done well and run her hands through his hair. That’s the rhythm of their sessions, or has been until now.

He hears the door of the fresher shut, and the sound of the shower.

That’s another first.

Luke lies there, lifting his head once to glance at the door, then drops back to the bed. He fights off the sleep that wants to come, and doesn’t reach for the bacta either. He’s sore, skin throbbing with heat and the cutting residue of emotion Chiara had beat into him. Normally Luke feels empty after impact…nothing inside. But this time, he’s absorbed the punishment, taken in her negativity. There’s something differently satisfying about it than the mental vacuum that’s the more typical aftermath.

The door opens. Chiara’s weight settles into the mattress. Luke keeps his eyes closed as she rubs the bacta salve into his skin with soft and practiced motion.

“Luke?”

He says nothing, feigning sleep.

A small sigh. He expects her to leave, then, and almost opens his eyes.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and then lies down next to him on the bed.

And this is also a first.

~~

Luke is awake long after Chiara’s breathing grows steady and slow. He opens his eyes, head turning to take in the woman lying at his side.

Luke wonders at the change. Why she was different tonight. Why she had welcomed his offer, to use him, take the outlet he’d presented. Luke isn’t satisfied anymore. Maybe she isn’t either. But what just happened, what _is_ happening, doesn’t feel like business. The contract doesn’t cover this. She’s a professional, he constantly reminds himself, the fact that he’s paying her more disturbing the longer he knows her.

And of course, he doesn’t know her.

He doesn’t know her at all.

He is the “beneficiary,” that sterile, non-judgmental title as grating as it is indisputable.

And Chiara…Chiara is the “proctor,” the word itself implying distance. She assesses him, monitors him, delivers the terms of the contract with ruthless precision and unimpeachable effectiveness.

And Luke wants more.

If he’s honest with himself, he’s been heading in this direction since the second session. It had haunted him, after.

_“I don’t want to be in breach of contract.”_

_“You’re already in breach of contract, Luke.”_

He was. They both were. This had moved beyond her concealing his identity. The terms and conditions seemed more irrelevant than ever. Tonight, _she_ had been the beneficiary—he’d done something she wanted. Something she needed. So why couldn’t they breach it further? Or tear the whole fucking thing up?

Usually these thoughts only came to him in her absence, when he was back on Coruscant. Where he can meditate, wrench himself back to his center, find distraction in work, research, or family. It’s a mistake to think about it during a session. It could ruin everything, Luke suspects, on some instinctive and basic level. 

He watches her sleep.

She’s beautiful. He was attracted to her from the first session, but she almost always looks stern and unyielding, features rarely softened by amusement or passion. He’s been allowed to see glimpses, but now, in the dim bluish light, Luke takes his time to really look. She’s still a mystery—it would be naive to think otherwise. But they’re compatible in a way that can’t be determined by contracts or fees. She reads him, knows what to give him. He’s grateful for her skill, her insight. But Chiara never let him return the favor before. Irrationally, unreasonably, Luke feels he understands her better now, on some inexplicable and profound level. It’s not quite _knowing_ her, but it’s something.

And here time slows, and thickens, and blurs. The darkness lies rich and sweet around him. He watches the slow rise and fall of her chest, and impulsively changes his own breathing to match her rhythm.

 _“I don’t share my bed.”_ The phrase echoes in his memory. She’d announced it their very first session.

Yet here she is, lying alongside him. Sleeping. Dreaming. Whatever had weighed on her thoughts has been purged through untempered violence. Though _his_ consideration and intervention. Luke feels the same welcome lightness he’s come to expect from these sessions—but this time the sensation is shaded by intimacy. 

He’d helped her.

Luke can’t resist, he reaches out with the Force to make sure she’s deep into her sleep cycle, then moves alongside her, the line of his body curved to hers. Chiara doesn’t stir.

Closing his eyes, he risks an arm across her waist.

This does make her stir. Luke keeps his eyes closed, forcing his breath to stay regular. He thinks she wakes, but doesn’t dare reach out again to confirm.

He’s still expecting her to pull away from his embrace when he falls asleep.

~~

In the morning, Luke wakes up before Chiara, and sees their positions unchanged from last night. One of her arms is bent over her chest, the other at her side. His is slung over her midriff, the other pillowing his head.

He’s still trying to decide if he should pretend to be asleep when she stirs. Instinct for her boundaries and comfort and nothing more makes him remove his arm, quickly. She hadn’t said he could touch. Luke doesn’t roll onto his back though, his ass still sore from the flogging.

She shifts onto her side, pushing away slightly, creating some distance between them on the mattress. Her look is cool, appraising. Back to normal, in other words. Luke schools his expression, trying to stay as blank as possible. He can do unreadable fairly well, he thinks.

“You did well last night, Luke,” she says softly, after a moment.

Luke stays silent. He hasn’t been told he can speak. She rewards his silence with a smile. He thinks he’s more than a little bit in love with that smile. The thought comes too late to stop and makes his breath catch.

He’s satisfied in a way he hasn’t been before, during a session. He had done well, had helped her. What had happened between them wasn’t stipulated by contractual sub-clause or detailed in sterile appendices to the same. It had been different. Real.

“Do you need the fresher?”

He does, and wishes he didn’t. He nods, trying to keep disappointment off his face. If he gets up from the mattress, Luke feels like whatever spell has been woven between them will be irreparably broken.

“Go ahead.”

He swallows and goes. The mirror behind the door shows him the damage isn’t as bad as he thought. She’d been more energetic than destructive with the flogger, he sees now. 

She likes him. He feels it. He can see it in the dark humor of her smile, the deep gleam of her eyes. Luke cuts off those thoughts. She’s a _professional._ An actress, of sorts. Doing a job. And he is the job.

When he returns, he expects the bed to be empty, but Chiara is sitting against the pillows. For the first time, he’s not completely hard at the sight.

Her green eyes notice, pointedly looking at his crotch, and she makes a tsking sound.

“I thought I could use you for something, but …” She starts to push up as if getting off the bed.

“No…” It escapes, sounds pathetic and needy, and Luke bites his lip, cursing internally.

“What’s the problem, then?” Her tone is cold, almost cruel, and he feels lacking and humiliated in a way he hasn’t in a long time. It further dampens his libido, no doubt what she was going for. She never makes it easy.

“No problem,” he chokes out the words, as if that had been his intended phrase. “How…” he trails off, and sees she’s waiting, something he doesn’t quite understand glinting in her eyes. She wants him to give the right answer, but he doesn’t know what the right answer is. “How do you want it?”

With a tilt of her head, she stares into his eyes, a mystery that he is desperate to unravel.

“My cunt. Your cock.”

Although he’s certain she said “cock” to prevent him from trying to use his mouth to buy time, the word has an immediate effect. Luke’s already feeling a twitch, his body reacting to the possibility she’s offered. He likes it when she uses him like this, when she takes what she wants unapologetically. And he likes what he can give her, hearing her come and knowing that it’s his presence that makes it possible, no matter how much she may act as if he’s incidental to the process. It’s part of the game; he knows, and doesn’t mind.

He can’t take any position other than missionary, the way that she’s reclined, and the result of last night’s punishment preventing him from lying on his back. He pumps his cock once, twice, quickly, before she can tell him it’s not allowed, and crawls onto the bed.

She arches an eyebrow, and makes no comment. She’s still clothed. Luke stops as he reaches her legs, uncertain.

“Undress me.”

She’s helping, he recognizes, grateful. He wasn’t rock hard before, but taking off her clothes is certain to get him there. He leans in for a kiss, but she shakes her head at him with a little “tut” and Luke decides not to push his luck. His fingers slide into the thin waistband of her panties and slowly, smoothly, tug them over her long legs. He resists the urge to plant kisses in the fabric’s wake. She lies back then, not facilitating any longer, but he glides his palms, flat and firm, beneath the tank, up against her ribs. She arches into his touch, eyes still cool. His fingers graze her nipples and she sighs, but it’s more a bored sound than an aroused one, and he dares to bend towards her neck to suck gently at that spot he knows she likes. She lifts her chin, providing him more access, and he takes that opportunity to lift the shirt higher.

“You’re still not very good at this, are you, Luke?” she says, but there’s no bite in it. He ignores her as he pulls the flimsy material over her head and drops it over the side of the bed.

Chiara doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, but he’s forever conscious of her demands, and pulls away from her neck to check his progress. She’s looking at him skeptically, and he desperately wants to kiss that sardonic mouth, make it round with gasps and moans, hear her say his name like a prayer.

Her eyes leave him as her hands reach for him. She spreads her legs, fingers trailing down his sides and resting lightly on his hips. Luke presses his chest against hers, capturing her mouth like he wanted, feeling her open, softening under his lips. His stomach responds first, tightening in excitement, and his cock follows, pushing inside her easily.

She’s so wet, always ready for him. She wants him. Welcomes him, even, the way she’d welcomed his assistance the night before. Had her sleep been as empty and dreamless as his was, after impact? It’s not an act, is it? To open to him like this, to touch him this way. To give herself. To enjoy it. To sleep in his arms.

Luke tries to lose himself in her lips, squeezing his eyes shut against these thoughts, focusing instead on the immediacy of her, the heat of her body around his cock. Her hands are on his back, clutching, and he’s on top of her, and that’s so _rare_ that she allows him this, and it feels so good, so _natural_ to be inside her and with her. He feels aching and desperate, his cock moving faster as he listens to the sounds of her pleasure, her breathing ragged, her cries when he circles and slams deeper. He wants _this_ , not to be bound by a contract or game or some artificial boundary.

“Luke…”

She sighs his name, her hands pulling him down against her, his chest hard against her breasts. He’s never been closer, touching more of her than he is right now.

The realization makes him lift his neck, look into her eyes. Breaths mingle, lips inches apart. He isn’t conscious of any question, but Chiara seems to answer one anyway, her fingers moving from his shoulders to his face.

Her touch feels different. Her nails rest tentatively on his cheekbone, her gaze not indulgent or amused, but bordering on tender. Luke is too aware of her body, the changes in temperature from the hot wetness surrounding his cock to the slick sweat cooling between their stomachs. Her fingertips on his face graze so softly, so unlike any way she’s touched him before. Luke leans into it, not even aware that he’s stopped moving inside her.

He wants her, needs her. All of her, not just what she gives him in this room, but what he sees in her eyes right now. It can’t be an act. It can’t be. He doesn’t want it to be.

Chiara’s hips shift slightly beneath him, the movement ripping him from his reverie. Her mouth quirks, almost mocking. Of course it’s part of the illusion. Bitterness drills a hole in his gut, his lungs constricting in disappointment. Just a deeper layer, a lower level of hellish pleasure. He is _paying_ her. 

Luke starts to thrust inside her again, but Chiara’s hand still caresses his cheek, a lover’s promise. It stings now like a wound, each pad of her fingers a separate stab to his heart.

He leans harder against her breasts, seizing her ready lips, wanting her to touch him anywhere else. Anywhere that doesn’t scream affection and acceptance. 

“Stop.” He whispers it into her mouth and slows his movements inside her, his cock deep in her cunt, pulling away with an exquisite friction and then, almost carefully, returning to her center. He jerks his head back to distance her hand from his face, taking it in his and pinning it to her side.

Her free hand fists against his back, her entire body tenses, rigid, contracting around him. 

An edge of panic sharpens her eyes as they bore into him.

“Stop?” she repeats clearly, the word sounding threatening, wrong.

Luke maintains his rhythm, trying to ignore the tension and resistance surrounding and consuming them. He squeezes her recently offending fingers in his to illustrate his point, tries to kiss her again. Chiara’s other hand is pushing his shoulders, her hips trying to pull back, to disappear into the mattress. But he’s on top, and there’s nowhere to go. He should try to explain…

“Stop is absolute, Mr. Skywalker.”

He leans in, kisses her instead, thinks she’s relenting for the briefest moment, her lips going from stone to lava, the warmth of her mouth a promise. He means stop pretending to care, stop pretending to love him, to drop the façade of nonjudgmental professionalism and give herself over to that sweetness, that look of hopeless adoration he thought he’d seen for the briefest, most heart-stopping moment. 

Chiara pulls back, a slap rocking his head so hard it takes him a moment to realize she’s hit him.

She’s struck him before. He’s used to it. This is part of the game. Part of the session. Luke seizes her free wrist and tightens his grip on the fingers he’s already imprisoned. 

Chiara’s look is piercing, condemning, but she’d _wanted_ to be kissed, he’d tasted her welcome just now. 

Unthinking, Luke starts to move again, his hips rolling against hers, his cock shoving deeper as she starts to jerk beneath him. She _asked_ him to fuck her. Chiara opens her mouth to protest, but he doesn’t believe her at all, not based on the last kiss they shared. Isn’t this ultimately supposed to be on his terms? His wishes? Luke bends his head, his mouth fighting to keep hers open, the pressure of his tongue on hers relentless and strong. Doesn’t he have the right to not be toyed with, to expect the straightforward treatment they’d agreed upon? She goes to bite and he beats her to it, nipping along her lower lip.

Chiara moans, then seems to remember herself, feet scraping along the mattress. Luke pins her easily, shins trapping shins, the strength of his legs immobilizing her lower half as he speeds up inside her.

“No…” she cries as he slams his cock into her again. Her body constricts around him to underscore the word. Tense muscles continue to flex and strain against his fingers even as a small gasp escapes her lips. Chiara’s exhales are uneven patches of hot air against his face, humid and panting. Her legs flail beneath his weight as Luke’s hands keep her forearms pushed deep into the bed. Her expression is completely different than the one she’d shown him a moment ago. Reddened lips part around teeth clenched against the sounds of pleasure threatening to leave her throat. Her color is flushed, pulse throbbing along her neck. A haze of lust confuses her eyes, something mad and uncontrollable shining through the flashing green. Her strong thighs hold him tight, even as her hips heave upwards. The movement bears the mark of resistance, but the result is a deeper acceptance of him. Filling her, proving the lie.

 _Yes,_ he thinks, but says nothing, focused on her, sliding, aiming his cock perfectly, so she can’t think, can’t do anything but react. He knows exactly what she likes; she’s taught him well. _This_ spot, _this_ way, _this_ depth, _this_ angle. She’s no longer in control of her body—he is. And her nerves have prioritized pleasure over distress; she lost the battle before she’d had time to arm herself.

He pays for her. For this.

Chiara’s arms stop their struggle, trembling in a different way. Her cunt contracts and shudders around him as he drives in…up…there. Her chin tilts up, eyes rolling to the ceiling, made sightless and helpless by her orgasm as she wails from the force of it.

The sound is wrong. There’s more than pleasure in it. It’s the scream of being completely undone, yes, but shattering on too many levels. It wrenches him from his madness and Luke is suddenly ashamed.

Before she can ask, beg, command, he pulls out. His undaunted erection seems to underscore the wrongness of what just happened. She’s left him unsatisfied before…but what… 

Chiara’s glaring, eyes fiery, scrambling to get out from under him, breasts heaving, thighs glistening. Luke rolls onto his back, sucking in a breath at the unexpected pain from the movement. He’d forgotten the damage from the night before.

She vanishes into the other room. Luke doesn’t move, trying to think, finding his mind is unhelpfully scattered. A few moments later, she returns, fully dressed and holding his folded clothes. The lightsaber is not there.

“The session is over. Get dressed, Mr. Skywalker.”

Her tone is unsteady, but firm. He wants to get a read on her and resists. It feels like cheating, even though he’s deathly afraid that he’s ruined everything. He takes a quick shower, getting dressed and feeling more uneasy wearing his clothes than naked in the apartment.

Luke knows he shouldn’t use the Force to center himself, but does it anyway. He has to face her, and doesn’t have any idea how to salvage this…arrangement. He thought he didn’t want Chiara if he couldn’t have all of her, but he was so wrong. He needs her, and will take whatever she is willing to give. He cannot lose this. He will not.

There is no possibility for anything more, and fantasies in that direction are worse than unproductive, they’re destructive.

She’s sitting at the table, legs primly crossed. No pantsuit, though. Perhaps she didn’t bring one this time, he thinks.

“I’m sorry,” he starts, and her clinically controlled stare stops him.

“It is at the discretion of the beneficiary or the proctor to end the session at any time, Mr. Skywalker. No explanation necessary.” Her voice drips with ice.

“I’d like to explain,” he tries.

“I’d rather you didn’t, Mr. Skywalker.”

He suddenly realizes she still hasn’t returned his lightsaber. She wouldn’t have forgotten that. It’s a subtle way of keeping him here. He can’t leave without it, and neither of them has mentioned it. Luke tries to stifle the surge of pressure in his chest this thought imparts, and slowly, gingerly sits down in the chair farthest from her.

“Please.” He doesn’t want to use her name, because deep down, he doesn’t believe it’s her real one. She’s silent, which he takes as permission.

This…” Luke tries to concentrate, “…this is good, isn’t it?” He can almost hear her trying to formulate a considered response and doesn’t want that. “And please…” she looks at him like he’s a strange specimen, and he swallows, hard, not sure how to stop her, trying anyway. “Please call me Luke.”

Chiara’s lips press tightly together as she meets his eyes, then relax at the edges, her hands moving from the tabletop to her lap.

“It’s good because of what it is. You’re trying to make it something it isn’t.” She holds up a hand to stop him from interrupting, her voice confident. “And you are Mr. Skywalker when we’re not in session. Beneficiaries are all addressed by title and surname outside of their allotted times.” Luke winces slightly, but she takes no notice. “If you are unsatisfied, you may terminate the contract at any time. There are no conditions, no explanations required.”

“Do you want me to terminate the contract?”

He asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t know what he expects, hesitation or some sign that she’s as confused by everything as much as he is, but he’s disappointed—her reply comes lightning fast.

“I want you to respect the terms of the contract, Mr. Skywalker.”

But he has a response for that, too. And she didn’t say yes. And that’s a relief he feels from his ears to his toes.

“We’re already in breach of contract.”

That stops her a moment and she meets his eyes, a hard, measuring gaze. 

Luke is amazed at her focus and the steel of her resolve. 

“Is that what this is about?”

It’s a simple question, and he doesn’t really have an answer. It’s about so much more than that. But he doesn’t want to damage things any worse than he already has, and she hasn’t kicked him out or terminated the contract, so he’d be smart to stop while he’s ahead. He finally shrugs slightly and decides to give her as much honesty as she can handle. Maybe as much as they both can handle.

“It’s good. It helps. I don’t want to terminate the contract.” He tries to match the force of her stare, feeling his own determination falter slightly at the unwavering, simmering anger that meets him. He needs to distance himself from this, no matter how much he wants the opposite. That much is clear. 

“I’m not…” he takes a deep breath “I lost focus. I forgot …” he isn’t sure how to explain, and waves a hand between them briefly, trying to illustrate his meaning. “…The parameters. It won’t happen again.”

There is silence between them, and Chiara rises after a beat, disappears. 

Luke isn’t sure what to do, sitting dumbly at the table. Time again acquires that dreamlike, surreal quality, the air surrounding him dense and silken, her perfume wafting a reminder of her departure. Luke closes his eyes, feeling despair and self-reproach pressing on all sides, threatening his composure. The scent of her intensifies, and he opens his eyes.

She’s near the door, holding his lightsaber lightly in her hand.

“I will note in the documentation that the session was ended approximately four hours early. Please remember you can revise or terminate the contract at any point, Mr. Skywalker.”

And that gives him some hope. There is still a contract, another session implied. He won’t try to normalize this again, he knows that now. He was an idiot to try. There’s nothing normal about this situation. 

Luke stands up smoothly, the constricted feeling in his chest loosening, and walks to take his weapon from her fingers.

When he’s about to open the door, she clears her throat as if trying to decide whether or not to speak, and he pauses, turns.

“Luke…”

She waits. He takes the name as a victory.

“Yes?”

“Do anything like that again, I will terminate the contract.”

The threat lands hard, a crushing blow to his renewed sense of security, and he nods.

“Of course. I won’t.”

He wants to apologize again, but swallows the impulse. He had to try… He failed, and doesn’t know how that will shadow future sessions, how much stick he’ll suffer to make up for the transgression, but he had to try.

There was only one more session after that.


End file.
